


Control

by 57821



Series: Into My Phantomverse [2]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Muslim Character, Nightmares, Self-Doubt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:35:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26199436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/57821/pseuds/57821
Summary: Time passes since they are separated
Relationships: Erik | Phantom of the Opera/The Persian
Series: Into My Phantomverse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2002387
Comments: 8
Kudos: 6





	Control

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song "Dreams by Kelsey Lu."

He arrives in Paris stumbling.

Community, he finds easily holding a variety of acquaintances. It is rather fun to sit around together like gossiping old crones, exclaiming things like, "Ah! One from Tehran! I once went on holiday there." Some in their circle would venture in, bringing news of the homeland, uncorrupted by the venom of outsiders. Others there for the sake of not succumbing to the disease of loneliness. But most, simply there to be merry.

Yet, he longs for home. 

For Maman's poetry which he keeps tucked inside his heart and of his sister Sougand's bravado in which they both share. Of his favorite Cousin Houda's unashamed cheek, watching in fascination as the older woman twisted and wove another's hair, if they wished. Waiting on the front steps of the family home, boiling with anticipation for Baba to return home from his travels to the Capitol, pleading for him to tell him of any happenings. Even the eerie comfort of the neverending natural greenery spread across his region, the whispers of the mountains. Hideaways in his place of birth, out in the countryside that he'd sneak off to with friends to the dismay of his parents.

"Don't run off or you'll turn into a statute!" Maman would always threaten, fuming if he came home after the sun set. 

And he'd say there's no such thing, never being the one to fall prey to tall tales, always logical. She'd just look at him after that, with that particular type of anguish in her eyes and she'd grit her teeth. Later on Rahim would realize that her worry was beyond superstition and a knot would form in his chest. He'd apologize, beg for her mercy but she wouldn't accept it. Not at least until the day after, then they would be thick as thieves once more.

On Fridays, the usual everyday cleansing and call to prayer alongside his family. In his youth hood, hours he spent pouring over the sayings of the Prophet with his peers in the maktab. Daily instruction would come to a close and they'd go out together huddled in pairs, putting their heads together to buy chunks of watermelon and bunches of lavashak. Later on when he'd complain of a sore tooth, Maman would just shake her head and scold him for eating too much sweets while Baba would just laugh and Sougand would pout, asking why he did not bring her any. 

Oh, and the food! 

Yogurt which he has a penchant for, particularly the strawberry flavor. Gaz that he could never get enough of during the hour of tea. Pomegranate, cucumbers and cherries finding their way into his diet. Seasoned fish and shrimp with added spice was plentiful with garlic garnish, a staple in his childhood. And the rice, the rice which was present in every meal! Pumpkin pilaf, bits of the bitter vegetable that he refused to eat as a child now find their way into his palette. He considers himself struck by luck to have found Darius, for every time he steps in the kitchen the ingredients turn to ash.

In all his homesickness, of his adjustment to the new atmosphere beyond vacation, a little thing from the past has been troubling him, refusing to let go of his hold on him. One that he does not allow the liberty of His name to pass through his lips, that damned damned name. 

That Man.

He comes to him in the form of dreams, from time to time, when he's particularly stressed. It's always the same, there He is with those leering eyes, looking down on him, as if He knows. Always intense, seeming more than usual and he awakens with sweat staining his nightclothes and Rahim promises he'll take care of his mind, his body more. Yet he ends up endlessly pacing after such dreams, watching, waiting for the candle wax to droop down.

Perhaps this is a sign? That He survived the journey, miraculously. That his exile was not in vain.

Or could it be more sinister, some sort of damnation from the ones he had miraculously evaded. Attempting to madden him, draw him out with the memory of that Man. Not everything could be blamed on Nazar. Perhaps it was guilt or some other practical explanation. The sins of his past.

Right? 

* * *

The first time, it happens at the fair. Curiosity takes him by the hand and he's led into an enclosure of big sprawling tents housing the biggest terrors and exotic things known to man. Whatever that means, anyway.

A brooding figure, in all black and Rahim's vision has never failed him, in a darkened mask. He cannot be mistaken, it _has_ to be Him. However it is dark, families with children surround him and in the blink of an eye, He's gone as soon as He comes.

Immediately after he returns to his apartment, he reads the two hundred and fifty-fifth verse of Al-Baqarah for good measure. 

Yet that night he dreams of piercing red barbs fastened around his throat, clawing at him, piercing his windpipe. Avoiding sleep like the plague for the next few days, he pours himself into his work.

The second time he sees Him, it's in the rough patches of the city. That familiar darkened hide of leather and he feels himself freeze in place, mouth dry, transfixed on that looming figure.

He hears a voice calling out to him.

"Rahim. _Rahim._ " 

"Rahim!"

He turns, snapping out of that hypnotic state and looks back at the entrance in which he's standing in front of.

"Are you going to stand outside here all day or will you come in?" Jules asked, door still hanging open, hands in his pockets 

"Yes. Yes of course," Rahim shakes his head, bidding his acquaintance an apology as he enters his home. Turning his back and squinting through that dingy dusty window, he finds that He has since left.

In the evening when he returns back to his apartment after a long day out, during that hour after the usual cleansing, after the prayer, exhaustion overtakes him once more.

He's back home in the Suledeh, drifting in Daryā-ye Khazar like his schoolmates taught him many years ago. A strong grip on his ankle pulls him deep and he's down under with nothing to grip, water running through his hands. Bitter salt water filling his lungs, scratching at his throat. That yellow glow that he cannot pinpoint. Chest solid, limbs frozen and a persistent ring in his ears. Vision blurring, then blackening.

And he wakes, gasping for air, chest heaving as if he were in fact there. Palming the thick folds of skin of his neck, he opens his whitened palms and finds nothing but the skin of his finger pads. Parting his lips, he lets out a sigh, slumping back against his pillow. Closing his eyes, he lets out a strangled curse, gritting his teeth.

"Rahim, my patient boy." Maman would boast to the neighbors and to her lady friends with a smug grin on her face. "Independent by nature but very intelligent."

Patience, a virtue he held close to him. The reason why he made such a good officer, always knowing when to strike, the right amount of mercy to give to an offender and always the right words to say. Empathetic, half of the reason why he got dragged into this entire ordeal. That very thing that he prides himself on is beginning to wear down.

* * *

When he tells Peyvand, an older woman in his circle, of these reoccurrences, her simple reply is, "God have mercy on the third one!"

"I'll send you my espand to burn." Peyvand promises him.

"You should know by now, you can't find anything in this country." She grumbles, pursuing her lips, crossing her thin arms.

It's worth a shot yet he knows deep down that this is not a matter of the spirits.

"The third one." He whispers, black eyes trailing to the fireplace, burning brightly, the crackling of the wood. Smokeless. Ventilated by brick and chimney.

* * *

As of late he's taken to writing fragments of poetry in the French language, in memoriam of his Maman. His editor, out on holiday had sent him a parcel containing the first edition and in his recent anxieties, had taken to popping up in the Postal office to check on it's whereabouts.

The office is bustling and understaffed, the two clerks tending to packages and customers searching for their packages. At the sight of him, Marie's eyes light up, a senior keeper in the office who he had grown fond of in all his time in the city.

"I'll be right with you Monsieur Mazanderani! It's just arrived!" Marie chirps, waving her hand, and resumes attending to a peculiar older man ahead of him.

Eying the panelled glass coating the inside of the office, he turns his attentions to outside. A figure in the corner of his eyes. That shred of familiarity. Rahim blinks. Watching them slowly move away into the crowd, into the bustling streets, Rahim taps his fingers against the counter. He glances at Marie arranging his package and then to the parcel itself with it's tawny brown paper casing. Fingernails fixed on the wooden surface, that ceaseless rapping sound and he fixes his attention to the bustling of the Parisian streets. Horses trotting about, gentlemen attempting to evade getting trampled, ladies huddled together and that figure still visible.

"Please have it sent to be delivered. Thank you. I'm so terribly sorry."

The words flurry from his mouth and he steps out the shop, bell clanging behind him and the chase begins.

_'Bad things come in three's. Well alright! It is about time I confronted this Man that terrorizes me so, or so God help me!'_

He trails along those dirty cobblestone streets, practiced eyes scanning about and though he may not hold His sharp reflexes, there is a reason he managed to last long in his line of duty. _Aha, there He is_ and he spots that lanky black figure moving towards a line of apartments.

Moving in brisk, wide footsteps, those gangly long legs always surprisingly moving at a quick pace. Struggling to pick up the pace with Rahim's own stubby legs, yet His back never leaving his trail.

High on adrenaline, he imagines of what he'll say, what he'll do when confronted with him. Shall he strike him across the face? Giving him less of what he truly deserves? (No no, He's much too prideful to be allowed to be manhandled like that, much less by him.)

Or will he embrace Him as comrades of days long past? And He'd refuse, honoring his reclusiveness above all else and he'd have to prod along at him, poking until he'd give in, the stubborn child that He is. 

Just like the good old days.

He's got him, seizing him by those jangly arms and his tongue slips into Farsi. That Man turns his back to face him. 

But it's not Him. 

And Rahim feels as if all the wind has been knocked from his chest. He retracts his hand back immediately, as if he were licked by a flame. In turn, the stranger too snatches back his arm, brushing his hand on his jacket, face sour.

The stranger approaches him slowly, "May I help you or is it a damn beating you're looking for?" The stranger asks, his eyes narrowed, face scrunched. A pitchy and airy voice he owns, one of a boy trying to be the bigger man.

Biting the inside of his cheek, his eyes soften as the man stares him down, jaw clenched.

"I'm afraid not."

Rahim fights to stifle a laugh and it bubbles up from the back of his throat, shaky. Running the back of his hand across his forehead, wiping the sweat, it comes out. A laugh, one of relief or perhaps even disappointment. He prays it isn't the latter.

**Author's Note:**

> Rahim is my name for the Daroga.
> 
> This is my first time writing a Muslim character. Please let me know if I made a mistake.
> 
> ***** Glossary:  
> Espand: rue seeds used to fight the evil eye in Iran  
> Jinn: are pretty much demons. Some are bad, some are good. Allah created jinn from smokeless fire.  
> Suledeh: old term for Nur city in Mazandaran province. I headcanon that this is Rahim's birthplace.  
> Daryā-ye Khazar: Farsi word for the Caspian sea  
> Nazar: the evil eye  
> Verse 255 of Al-Baqarah from the Quran: a protection verse against Nazar  
> Maktab: basically Muslim school for kids  
> Lavashak: Iranian fruit roll ups  
> Gaz: nougat made of sap, rosewater and pistachio  
> Mazandarani pumpkin pilaf: basically pumpkin rice, looks very good  
> That thing about bad things coming in threes: apparently that's an Iranian superstition
> 
> Fun fact: during my research I learned that many people in the Mazandarani region in the 1800s consumed mainly fish and rice due to the climate! Also unlike other areas in Iran, they consume spicy food.
> 
> My reference to "Cousin Houda braiding hair" is a homage to the historic Afro Iranian presence in Iran.
> 
> Most Iranians in the Mazandarani region are Shia Muslims and shrimp is apparently halal within the Shia division. Please correct me if I'm wrong.


End file.
